


And Broken Days Between

by WhatEvenAmI



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anxiety, Bed-Wetting, Depression, Diapers, Gen, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Non-Sexual Age Play, Paranoia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Hatred, Shame, Tenderness, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-10 07:55:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14732988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatEvenAmI/pseuds/WhatEvenAmI
Summary: It's becoming clear that Bucky is struggling through post-HYDRA life without ever really getting better.It takes a massive breakdown to help him to admit and Steve to understand what it is he really needs.





	And Broken Days Between

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kotaka_kun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kotaka_kun/gifts).



Bucky’s tired.

He’s not sure exactly what he’s tired of—of failing, of tripping over baby steps of attempted progress, never really getting better no matter how much hope Steve tries to give him. Of struggling with being a functional human being, the pressure of learning to be a person and the mingled shame and relief every time Steve steps in and helps him make a simple decision.

Maybe it’s just the shit sleep. It can’t be helping.

They’re sitting in the kitchen, Steve making lunch for Bucky. Omelets, again, because Bucky chose them once when he was having a good day and now it’s his go-to when he finds himself unable to make simple decisions. He’s trying; he is, and he knows this should be easy. Choosing what he wants for lunch isn’t exactly a life-changing decision, but for so many decades he was never offered any choices at all.

And he should want those choices back. He knows he should. He recognizes, now, the magnitude of what was taken from him, and he has enough of his memories now to be certain that the Bucky he used to be would want to take it back. But in a life of constant terror and agony, having choices made for him was a given. They were bad choices, sure, but they were structure. Traumatized and confused, he feels lost without it.

And he’s trying. He knows he should be trying, that he shouldn’t want someone to control things for him again. It feels shameful, like the ripped and soaked sheets he mended and put through the wash earlier, the result of a violent nightmare and scrabbling metal fingers. Of a body that’s forgotten how to self-manage.

Steve slides the omelet onto Bucky’s plate. “Want anything to drink?”

It should be a simple question. Is he thirsty? Does he need to drink? He probably should. He makes himself nod, wishing things could just be as simple as they used to be.

He feels guilty for wishing it. It would kill Steve to know that’s what he wants, that after all the kindness and freedom and love heaped upon him he still craves to crawl back into the shithole of his HYDRA days just because they told him what to do and promised he was good for doing it.

He knows they made him that way, that the things he was doing were objectively terrible, that his life was awful then and now he’s allowed to become a man again. A person.

He was doing terrible things for HYDRA. What kind of shit person would want to go back to that just because they never had to face what they’d done? Who gets the choice to be a free man again and thinks it’s too hard?

“Bucky?” Steve’s asking, and Bucky comes to, face hot and heart pounding. He froze up, stuck in his own head, and now Steve’s looking at him with concern and an echo of the tiredness Bucky’s been feeling. He’s tired of trying so hard to help so much and still watching his friend fail to get better. “I was just asking what you wanted to drink. Is water okay?”

Bucky nods. Anything Steve puts in front of him is fine. God, if only Steve could be his handler. He’d have the best of both worlds. There’d be no torture, no blood and no cruelty, and he wouldn’t be told to go out and hurt others. Steve could tell him how to be a person. He trusts Steve to do it; he’s unquestionably the best man Bucky’s ever known. And Bucky could trust him, too, with that secret shame. The endless need for help in a world that feels too vast.

But he’s already so damn ashamed of making Steve look so tired. Of making Steve’s life revolve around him already. Of the spark of hope rejuvenating in his best friend’s eyes every time he has a good day, only to fade away with every breakdown, every time he goes away in his head or breaks something or can’t leave the house. Steve’s already tried so hard for him. Bucky can’t tell him he has to try to be what HYDRA was to him. Hold onto his humanity for him because he’s not sure he’ll ever want it back. He can’t do that to Steve. It’d kill him.

He shovels down the omelet and drains the glass of water Steve places in front of him, hoping to quell the racing thoughts in his head. Steve hands him another glass with a little smile, never tired of fetching things or buying things or being there, never letting go of the hope that he can fix Bucky with enough love. Bucky wishes it could be enough, he really, really does.

When he’s finished his own lunch, Steve takes a seat beside Bucky. “Buck,” he says seriously, “we need to talk.”

That’s never a good sign. Bucky freezes and spaces out hard for a few moments, trying to remind himself that this is Steve and he’ll never throw Bucky out of the house or beat him or torture him for kicks, never freeze him away somewhere for being too broken.

When he comes to, he sees Steve’s sad smile, feels his warm hand on top of his. “I’m not angry,” Steve promises, “But I think this is something you need to hear.”

The therapy thing again. “No!” Bucky rasps. He shouldn't, he knows he shouldn't refuse Steve anything after everything he's done for Bucky. Steve’s been far too good to him and far too patient, but he can’t do this, can’t leave the apartment most of the time, can’t even think of sitting with some doctor without Steve there and letting her see all the most vulnerable parts of his brain. “I don’t want to talk to anyone, Steve!”

Part of him hopes Steve will take over and tell him he has to. _Make_ him do what’s best for him if he won’t do it himself. But Steve, damn him, is too kind to do it, and he only gives Bucky a sad and pained look.

“I don’t want to say you have to do anything you don’t feel comfortable doing,” he says gently, “But, Bucky, I really think you need help. And I don’t know how to give it to you.” _I’ve tried,_ he doesn’t add, but Bucky hears it anyway, and lowers his head in shame. There’s a vaguely sharp pain in his gut, and he tries to calm it with another gulp of water.

“What about Sam…” Bucky falters. He’s not sure he likes how Sam’s eyes seem to look at him and take him in all at once. He’s quiet, and perceptive, and Bucky’s not sure how he’d feel about Sam looking at him and possibly knowing things about him that he doesn’t even know about himself. But objectively, he likes Sam, and he can trust him. Sam helped take down HYDRA, and doesn’t have a vested interest in poking into Bucky’s brain.

“Sam can’t,” Steve says carefully, “I spoke to him—I didn’t tell him anything personal about you!” He adds, as Bucky’s head snaps up sharply. He hates feeling like he’s being talked about; he hates being something Steve needs to talk about. The ache in his gut returns. “He told me he can’t see a friend professionally. A therapist can’t get personally involved. But he said he could find someone. He knows a lot of good people, Buck—”

“I don’t want to see any of them!” Bucky says through gritted teeth, “I can’t! I can’t trust any doctors! I’ll do it without them, I’ll—”

“Buck,” Steve says, and Bucky hates himself for making him sound so drained, “We’ve tried that, and it’s not working. How much longer can you live like this?”

“I’ll get better!” Bucky snaps, his whole body clenched up against the ache now, “I will!” But it’s an empty promise. He’s said it before, and he couldn’t do it then, no matter how hard he tried. “I’ll look something up on the internet, I’ll—I’ll try the meditation videos again, or—”

“Bucky. Honey.” Bucky’s stomach aches harder at the pet name. He wants to give in to it. He wants to let Steve coax him, but he’s terrified, like a treed cat that can’t come down, and he scoots out of his chair and onto the floor, backing up against the wall trying to keep from caving in. “It’s not enough. You’re not getting better. You’re sick. There are lots of people who need help to—”

“Lots of people aren’t under threat of being sent back to HYDRA because the wrong doctor found out what makes them tick!” Bucky yells, “What do you even care if I never get better? You said I had choices, didn’t you? What do you care if I choose to stay broken and useless all my life?” He’s being unfair, and he knows it, and he hurts all the worse for hurting Steve like that. Steve can’t do anything but care. He’s white-faced, shaking, and he has to take a minute to compose a response, while Bucky waits with his stomach clenched and quivering inside him.

“Have you ever thought,” Steve grits out eventually, his patience having finally, finally worn all the way down, “That it actually hurts me to see you hurting like this? How long can you make me watch you die inside? I’m sorry I let you fall from the train, Bucky, I am, more sorry than I can say, but how long can you make me watch—”

Bucky’s insides suddenly feel so cold.

His gut clenches hard from the shock and the stress, and there’s a sudden, hot spurt in his groin, trickling down to his ass. Bucky gasps as he identifies the pain in his belly. His body, too busy stressing, didn’t fully realize the need to piss until it became sharp and all-encompassing, and now Bucky can’t move without losing control. He feels color draining from his face, and can vaguely hear Steve’s concern-tinged voice asking, “Bucky? Hey, come on now, look at me. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to push you that hard. I’m sorry, Bucky.”

Bucky doesn’t answer, entirely focused on not making a mess on Steve’s floor. He’s so tired of failing and tired of being broken and tired of trying and trying and trying to reach goals that shouldn’t feel so big and beyond his grasp. He can’t wet himself in front of Steve like this, just because of some stupid argument in which he already knows he should concede. He just _can’t._ He has to keep this from happening.

But his desperate body has other ideas, a violent urge building in his bladder. His body has been holding on too long and the demands placed on it are too much. It’s tired too. Another long, warm spurt escapes from and he whines in frustration and fear, scooting his legs together and grabbing onto his damp crotch. He’ll be humiliated later, but right now his focus is single-minded.

Steve’s kneeling at his side, rubbing his shoulder. “Oh, _Buck_. It’s okay. It’s okay, we’ll get you to the bathroom. Come on, let’s get you up.”

His whole face burns as Steve takes his arm and guides him off the floor. He tries to stand, leaning hard on Steve, but losing the pressure his legs had been keeping proves to be too much. He gasps as heat floods down his legs, dizzy and terrified. The splatter against the floor is awful, all-encompassing, and he sinks back to his knees to make it stop. He sits in the spreading puddle of his urine, shaking and ashamed, until Steve reaches down to pick him up, balancing Bucky on his waist like a toddler.

The humiliation is worse then, trying to stop the spreading wetness between them, hot in Bucky’s crotch, soaking Steve’s shirt to his belly. But Steve’s murmuring in his ear that it’s okay and not to worry about it, so Bucky just hides his face in Steve’s shoulder and pisses helplessly against him and lets himself feel small. What does it matter? He’s already lost. His body’s affirmed just how weak and hopeless he really is.

Steve rushes him to the bathroom and sits him down in the tub. Tears drip down Bucky’s face as he watches the last of his urine run hot down his legs, flowing away down the drain. He feels sick and he smells like piss and he’s sure that he’s been lower than this before but right now he can’t think of when. His body is shaking from exhaustion and the dizzying relief of having been emptied out, and he sobs, overwhelmed.

Steve’s wrapping a towel around his shoulders, tight and warm, rubbing his arm bracingly. He’s just been loud and awful and bad and weak and Steve’s still here. Of course he is; it’s Steve. Bucky holds onto his arm and cries harder from defeat. Steve’s right. He needs to get some kind of help. He needs—something, no matter how much he wants to stop needing it. He’s too overwhelmed all the time; it’s all too much.

Steve just lets him hold on until the sobbing has petered out. “Hey, it’s no big deal, all right?” he says quietly, “I’ll get you some clean pants. I get it, you were stressed. I’m not—”

“Steve.” Bucky shakes his head, taking a deep breath. “I—we can’t pretend it’s just this one thing. You were right. I can’t do this. I—I suck at being alive, okay? I said it. You were right. I can’t do it. I’m pathetic and I can't do anything for myself and I’ll never be a functional person, I should just—”

“Hey.” Steve’s voice is gentle but commands attention. “That’s not what I meant. I would never say any of that about you. You’re not pathetic, Bucky.”

Bucky actually huffs out a laugh at that one. He looks wildly at Steve and gestures at his wet pants, cold and clinging to his legs.

“Buck.” Steve rubs his back, “You’re fighting decades of torture. No one could walk out of that and still be functional. You’re not pathetic. I will never think you’re pathetic, no matter what.”

Bucky looks up at him incredulously, but his sardonic response dies in his throat. Steve’s eyes look so burningly earnest, and what he ends up saying is, “Never?” and his voice is so small.

“Never,” Steve says firmly. “It could’ve been me. It would’ve been anyone, if they’d gone through what you did. It’s—it's okay, that you’re not okay.”

“I’ve been trying so hard to be, though,” Bucky says softly, “and I failed.”

“Maybe not,” Steve’s voice is thoughtful, “Maybe we just haven’t tried the right steps to help get you there. We tried to do it all at once. Now we know that was a bad idea.”

Bucky glances up at him, shivering and cold. "Therapy?" he whispers, "And doctors?" He can't even pretend anymore that he doesn't need them.

"I think so," Steve rubs his back. "I'm sorry, Buck, but yeah. Therapy and doctors. But also—I need you to just tell me what you need. I know you've been trying so hard to act like you're getting better, and we both know you're not. So if you can stop acting like you have to pretend with me, if you're honest with me about how I can help you—you know I'll do anything for you."

Bucky tentatively raises his head, the cautious seeds of hope sprouting in his mind. “Maybe…”

“Maybe what?”

“If you told me what to do,” Bucky says hesitantly, “I know you don’t want me to be like the Soldier, but—it’s all I know how to be. There are just—so many choices. Things to think about. It makes me feel—just so _small_. Like a little kid. It’s too much. Maybe if you told me what to do, starting all the time, but a little less every day—maybe I could learn to do it on my own.”

He’s surprised at how relieved he feels admitting how helpless he is. He hadn’t wanted to disappoint Steve. But Steve is looking thoughtful, not sad, and he’s still letting Bucky hold onto his arm for support.

“I thought it would heal you, to let you know you could make your own choices. Take control of your life. I didn’t realize—it takes a lot of effort. No one told you how. I’m sorry, Bucky. We’ll figure it out, okay?”

Bucky sighs gratefully and lets himself lean into Steve’s shoulder. Embarrassing as it is, it’s a relief to just stop struggling so hard and admit he needs his choices mapped out for him. Steve won’t lead him wrong. Bucky can trust him with this.

“I have an idea,” Steve says hesitantly, “Because of what you said, about feeling small—there’s something I saw, on the Internet, back when I was researching this century. It’s unconventional. But a lot of people who do it say it makes them feel secure. To hand over control to another person.”

“If you’re talking about sadomasochism, I don’t want it,” Bucky says flatly, fidgeting to relieve the itch where his pants sit against his legs. He’s not sure what parts of the Internet Steve frequents, and now he’s not sure he _wants_ to know, but he’s pretty sure whips and ball gags aren’t going to fix whatever fucked-up garbage is rattling around inside his brain.

“Not exactly like that,” Steve says. “Look, it’s—we have a lot of talking to do, about boundaries and things like that. But why don’t we get you out of those pants first?”

Bucky squirms again, his face hot, and he nods.

So Steve brings a washcloth and a new pair of jeans, and he helps Bucky step out of his cold, wet pants. He gently cleans his skin with the cloth, instructing him where to turn and which leg to lift to get into the dry clothes. The magnitude of the relief is a headrush, being given orders to obey, having someone else deal with the figuring-out and the execution of all the plans. He just does what he’s told to do, and drinks in the gentle comfort of Steve, and there’s so much room for the calm that’s beginning to fill his head.

He still feels so small. But Steve is here, and the smallness doesn’t feel like such a problem anymore.

When they’re both in clean clothes and the residual puddles of urine have been cleaned up, Steve instructs Bucky to sit with him on the couch. They huddle together under a blanket in the glow from Steve’s laptop, and they do their research.

Steve’s right. It is a little weird. But _Bucky’s_ a little weird, and Steve says that’s okay, and he can trust Steve with his weaknesses and admit when he needs help.

They plan for a couple of hours, negotiate how they can help Bucky re-adjust to humanity, and make a list of the stuff they’ll need to get. Bucky’s mortified when Steve puts diapers at the top of the list, but Steve says firmly that he’s going to wear them, and the relief of being given the order narrowly outweighs the profound embarrassment he feels. He trusts Steve. He needs Steve. And Steve’s not wrong; this way he’ll finally be able to sleep.

After all, he is so damn tired of being tired.

*

“What do you want for dinner?” Daddy asks, and Bucky feels small and uncertain. But then Daddy adds, “We can make cheesy pasta, or we have chicken and potatoes,” and everything settles into place. Two choices. All he has to figure out which one sounds yummier. When he thinks about it that way, it’s not so scary, even though the choice is hard because he likes them both a lot. “Um...pasta, I guess. Please,” he adds shyly.

“Good!” there’s a happiness in Daddy’s face that Bucky thinks he hasn’t seen there in a while. “Good choosing, Bucky.”

He feels a warmth light up inside him, filling him all the way to his fingers and toes. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to be able to do something _good._ Daddy smiles real big at him and he smiles back, real and not forced at all.

Daddy’s fingers ruffle lightly through his hair. “All right, little pumpkin,” he says, and Bucky giggles at the nickname, “Come help me make dinner, okay?”

“Kay!” Bucky smiles some more, so hard his face hurts. Daddy thinks he’s doing good enough to _help._

And even better, Daddy picks him up and _holds_ him, balancing Bucky on his hip and holding him all snuggly and warm. He’s so big and strong, and he smells good and familiar, like safety and a little bit of sweat. Bucky leans his face into Daddy’s shoulder for a minute, hugging him so tight, and he gets a big squeeze back.

He gets to help put spaghetti in the water, and he even gets to stir, all while Daddy tells him he’s doing a good job. Then he gets to pick the vegetables, but Daddy puts him down while he cuts them up, saying Bucky’s too little to handle the knife. That makes Bucky feel a little bit sad, but he knows Daddy’s making choices for him to keep him safe. And he _does_ feel safe. And he gets to sit on the floor and snack on shredded cheese until Daddy is done.

After dinner, Daddy reads to him a lot. They’re reading a lot of books because Daddy’s still learning what other games they can play. He didn’t have any kids of his own ever, not until Bucky became three just now, first because he was too sick and then because his job was too dangerous and he had to be away all the time.

But Daddy says they’ll figure all that stuff out as it comes. And he’ll do anything to make Bucky feel okay, because he loves him so so much, and Bucky gets to sit on Daddy’s lap a whole lot while they read, so for now it’s okay.

Every so often Daddy tells him it’s time to take a potty break, and Bucky blushes a lot at that, because he feels like he should still be able to know when he has to go. But he realizes it saves him a lot of worry about figuring out what he needs, and that’s what he wanted in the first place. All night, there are no accidents, because Daddy’s keeping him safe, and Bucky finds he doesn’t really mind it so much. It’s just like he thought; Daddy takes care of things for him, and makes everything turn out okay.

Eventually he’ll have to be big again. They talked about this a lot, and Daddy thinks it wouldn’t be good for Bucky to spend all his time being little and hiding away from all the trying he has to do to be a healthy grown-up again. He’s going to have to fight and struggle and be upset and scared. He’s going to have to see a therapist, or maybe a whole _team_ of different therapists. The thought is so scary he almost can’t breathe.

But. Daddy will still be with him then. Daddy promised he’ll stay with Bucky at all the appointments and never leave until Bucky feels safe. And then, after the hard stuff, he’ll get to take breaks and be little again, and it’ll all be okay. Daddy will make sure.

Eventually Daddy tells him it’s time to take a bath and get ready for bed. The bathwater is warm and Daddy’s hands are so gentle when he lathers Bucky with soap and shampoos his hair. He tells Bucky to close his eyes when they rinse the shampoo out, and Bucky does, and even with his eyes closed Daddy’s still right there with his gentle hands guiding Bucky’s head back. He towels Bucky dry and helps him step into a pull-up and gives Bucky a big hug ‘cause he knows Bucky’s feeling a little sensitive about that.

But the pull-up means that when Daddy puts him in the bed and asks him, “One more choice, pumpkin. Want me to stay with you tonight? Or not?” Bucky can make that decision, easy-peasy, because he doesn’t have to be scared of making a cold, smelly mess in the sheets and getting Daddy all wet.

“Stay. I want you to stay with me.”

And Daddy smiles and scoots into the bed, all snuggled up to him, and pulls the blankets up over them both.

Bucky smiles into Daddy’s chest in the darkness. “Love you,” he whispers.

“I love you too, sweetheart.” And he’s getting a big kiss on the top of his head.

He’s smiled more just tonight than he has in he doesn’t know how long, and for the first time since he can remember, he falls asleep feeling calm and secure and excited for the day ahead.


End file.
